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Quinn nods, her fingers toying with the stem of her wine glass. The easy camaraderie from earlier has evaporated, replaced by a palpable tension that hangs heavy in the air.
I attempt to lighten the mood with a joke about my misspent youth, but Quinn's laughter rings hollow, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
By the time we finish our dessert—hers still barely touched—I can sense her retreating further into herself, her responses becoming more reserved and guarded.
“Quinn?” I ask, tentatively. “Is everything alright?”
Did I do something? Did I say something?
Quinn sets down her fork with a soft clink and meets my gaze. “I'm feeling a bit tired, Mark. I think it's best if we call it a night.”
I study her face, noting the slight furrow of her brow and the tension in her shoulders. Is she truly tired, or is it something more? I can sense her desire to retreat, to put some distance between us.
Part of me wants to press further, to coax her into staying a little longer. But I know that would only push her further away. So instead, I nod in understanding and signal for the check. “Of course, Quinn. Let's get you home.”
I can't help but feel a pang of frustration as I pay the bill. We were making progress, slowly chipping away at the walls she's built around herself. What the hell happened?
Chapter 11 - Quinn
I lean back in my chair, stretching my arms above my head as I try to shake off thoughts of Mark. My work was finished over half an hour ago, but I’m still stuck in my office because this is the one place I won’t accidentally run into Mark. The image of Natasha draping herself all over him last night at the restaurant keeps replaying in my mind—her hand on his muscular arm, her tinkling laugh as she asked him to call her. What did she mean when she said he used to call her at all hours of the night? Exactly howmanywomen does Mark call at all hours of the night? I grit my teeth.
As much as I hate to admit it, seeing them together stirred up an ugly swirl of jealousy inside me, which is ridiculous. Mark is my fake fiancé, nothing more than a means to an end to keep Charlie Letvin off my back. And he's a notorious playboy—exactly the kind of man I usually avoid like the plague.
But damn it, despite his arrogance and bossiness, there's something about Mark that really gets under my skin. The way his chiseled jaw tightens when he's concentrating or angry, the intensity of his blue-gray eyes locked on mine, the raw power of his tall, muscular frame. I can't help but imagine what his large hands would feel like gripping my hips, his lips blazing a trail of warmth down my neck...
No. I shake my head firmly. I refuse to be just another notch on Mark Zolotov's bedpost. This is strictly a business arrangement, and I need to remember that. No matter how attractive he is or how weak he makes my knees with a single smoldering glance, I have to keep my distance.
I stand up from my desk chair and stretch my arms overhead, feeling a restless energy thrumming through my body.Sitting here stewing over Mark isn't helping me at all. I need a distraction, something to clear my head before I drive myself crazy overthinking this entire fake fiancée situation.
I need a walk.
I wander down the endless hallways with no end destination in mind, my fingertips gliding over the luxurious wallpaper.
My footsteps echo softly in the cavernous space, the only sound until a distant, rhythmic clanking catches my attention. I pause, head tilting as I strain to listen. It's coming from the slightly ajar door ahead of me. Curiosity piqued, I approach silently until I can peek through the gap.
The room beyond is a state-of-the-art gym, filled with gleaming metal and stark lighting. In the center of it all stands Mark. Did I mention he’stopless?He's facing away from me, every perfect muscle of his back and arms flexing as he lifts what looks like a hundred and fifty-pound barbell.
I can’t look away from how his skin glistens with a sheen of sweat, from how his muscles ripple and dance with the powerful movements he makes. He’s a pure beast and a pleasure to watch.
Heat blooms in my cheeks, a traitorous response to the sight of his muscled back, shimmering with sweat. I silently curse my own weakness, feeling angry at myself for being affected by him. Distance, I remind myself sternly. I need to maintain a professional distance.
But even as I form the thought, my treacherous mind conjures an entirely different scenario. In my fantasy, I stride boldly into the gym, the click of my heels announcing my presence. Mark looks up, surprise flickering across his face.
I don't give him a chance to speak. I close the distance between us, planting my hands on his sweat-slicked chest and shoving him backward. He stumbles, off-balance, and we both tumble onto the mat.
I land astride him, my skirt riding up my thighs. His hands immediately find my hips, his touch searing even through the fabric of my clothes. Our eyes lock, the air between us charged with tension.
“Quinn,” he growls, his voice rough with desire. “What are you—”
I silence him with a bruising kiss, pouring all my frustration and pent-up longing into the clash of our mouths. He responds with equal fervor, his fingers digging into my flesh as he drags me closer.
Buttons scatter as he impatiently rips open my blouse, baring my breasts to his heated gaze. I arch into his touch as he cups the sensitive mounds, his thumbs dragging over my taut nipples. The rasp of his calluses against my skin sends sparks of pleasure racing down my spine.
“Mark,” I gasp, grinding against the hard evidence of his arousal. “I need...”
He flips us over in a sudden move, his heavy body pinning me to the floor. “I know what you need,” he rasps, his breath hot against my ear. “And I'm going to give it to you.”
His mouth trails down my throat, his teeth nipping at my pulse point as his hands skim over my ribs, my waist, my hips. He hooks his fingers under my skirt and—